Real talk? I get super angry sometimes.
In traffic it's funny because you can hear me yell at cars in my best Arnold voice. Those of you who have driven with me know what's up.
I may go on a Lewis Black/Jon Stewart rant, and those can be entertaining too.
Sometimes the anger is about the abuse I've lived through and the things my mother has done. Those times it's not as fun.
It winds up with T and I laying down at bedtime and me ranting angrily. He holds me and makes me laugh, but the anger is still there like potential energy waiting to go kinetic.
It is hard because I need to talk it out. If I don't, I wake up in the middle of the night and vomit.
I wish I was kidding.
The more I talk though, the more I realize what I'm saying is not logical, not sane. It's one thing to ask T to deal with my physical illness and quite another to let him in to really see what my mental illness is like. It should be easier - he has his share of depression and anxiety too.
But this anger... it's coming from the PTSD, from the need to fight. It's a different kind of triggering experience than flashbacks but no less difficult.
I'm grateful that I have T. He keep me stable and grounded during the process. He keeps me safe and in the present.
It's priceless and more than I could ever openly ask someone to do.